Risen- Drarry COMPLETE

Chapter 11

—Harry POV—

I awoke to the feeling of the warm sun shining on my face, pulling me from the dark blankness of my heavy mind. I arose slowly, feeling the monotonous routine of waking to an empty house weighing down on me. It seems that with how much I tend to isolate myself, being alone never really helps me- it only allows me to wallow in my misery and decline into a useless shell of a human being. I turned to find a breakfast beside the bed- as always- and a note- as always- from Hermione, telling me that she and Ron had gone off to work, like they always do on week days. I glanced around, mind hazy, and I wondered briefly what day it was.

In the month that I'd spent hiding out at Hermione and Ron's house, I'd barely thought to keep track of the weeks. I knew when I came, and I knew when the press conference was, and I know it's been at least five days since. But then again, I hadn't found it important enough to keep track of.

Keeping everything to myself again had dragged me into a sort of familiar turmoil within my mind. I almost casually walked through the tar in my brain as I entertained my self-deprecating thoughts and the eternally pulling gravity of the situation occurring outside the relative yet false safety of four walls of the guest bedroom. I'd have panic attacks silently, alone, and they'd leave me so completely and utterly drained that I couldn't bring myself to speak or scream or scratch or cut; I simply stayed in the corner of the room, staring into the empty distance, maybe even falling asleep, letting a few silent, careless, effortless tears slip.

Every day, Draco would show up without fail- the only exception being the day of the press conference. He'd come evenings, ask how I am, ask if things were alright, and if Ron and Hermione knew anything, anything at all. I made sure to stay in my room when he came over. I was simultaneously heartbroken and relieved every time he would pay attention to Ron and Hermione and leave me alone.

Of course though, I wasn't telling anyone anything. I'd gone off and hidden myself away precisely because I was tired of having to tell everyone everything. I was tired of having a Muggle doctor that was sworn to secrecy analyze every aspect of my existence and tell me how to keep living. I was tired of opening up, reliving everything, and not coming out the other end as any sort of self-actualized man who could look back on his past without batting an eye. Everyone keeps saying recovery requires time, but I've given it whole eternities, and had been almost entirely fruitless.

"I think it will get better... with time. You're doing loads better than you were a year ago."

"They would be so proud of the progress you've made, Harry."

Draco's voice echoed through my mind as I remembered a few of the countless times in the past year that he'd told me I was better, that I was improving.

I want to believe him, so badly, but, life seems to have it set up for me to fail- for me to relentlessly claw my way towards any semblance of improvement only to be mercilessly dragged to the floor again.

I'm tired of it.

I simply couldn't stand to keep burdening Draco with my endless rotations of the same stupid thoughts when it amounted to nothing, when he couldn't even bring himself to do the same thing. I hated the feeling of being analyzed by a professional- someone who I don't trust, who I don't know- but I'd done it for Draco, who I distinctly remember going sheet-white with hints of green when I told him I was contemplating it again.

It was helping, yes, but the improvement was so small, so insignificant- among decades worth of trauma, pain, suffering, being alone- that I grew frustrated at the idea that I'd have to wait what felt like an entire other lifetime to feel significant improvement, that is, if I didn't drive myself off a cliff in a fit of transient rage fueled by my own madness first.

I missed Draco. I missed our hugs, our kisses, his cooking- even if I barely ate enough of it- his eyes, how they pierce into mine with determination, his hair, which always manages to be so, so soft, how his hand fit with mine, how his hugs were like a giant security blanket, how much he let it show that his son is his everything, how he always just... knew... when I needed him. He knew how to get me to tell him anything he wanted. He had that sort of allure to himself. He was protecting me, in a way, while still seeing to it that I didn't lock myself in the room indefinitely- just like I'm doing here, at Ron and Hermione's, free of his careful watch, free from talking about everything.

Free from making myself vulnerable.

That was one thing, I figured: I am so horrid at masking my emotions, at blocking them away when people beckoned them forward, but I am masterful when it comes to hiding myself away all together. I hide myself, not my emotions. I leave my vulnerability and my hopelessness to myself, I don't spread the depressing mood, the anxiety, the fear, the memories, like an infectious plague that makes everyone become overly concerned with me, a disease that is clearly my own to spread, one I don't want to keep spreading, especially to Draco- probably the only person I've really opened up to since the war- no matter how many times he's insisted that it's okay, that he was there for me.

Besides: If he says that me sharing my troubles won't affect him, then how come he argues that sharing his struggles will affect me?

I trudged myself out of bed, mindlessly scratching at my head as I took the plate of food and brought it downstairs, intending to take no more than a bite for my medicine, before throwing the rest away. As I wandered the kitchen, my mind trailed the recent memory of basically tripping over myself to cook dinner for Hermione and Ron as a thank you and an apology all at the same time, for invading their space, for standing up for me without question.

I reached into the cabinet and grabbed the seven-day organizer, the rattling of the pills violently jarring at my senses as I opened the lid for Wednesday, taking the two pills out of their designated box, and unceremoniously swallowing them. I took a swig of water, eyeing the breakfast with scrutiny. I wasn't hungry. Well, I was hungry, but had no appetite- as always.

Really, I don't know why I tell myself I'm going to eat when I've gotten so used to denying it to myself that I've lost the will and the appetite for it.

I Lifted the plate, beginning to slide the eggs and sausage into the bin before jumping back in sheer terror at the sound of an all-to-familiar voice. I dropped the plate, cursing silently at the broken ceramic and the mess of eggs before my eyes could flicker over to the tall, blond, pale figure I'd been avoiding since my last therapy session. I froze, overcome with eager love and alarming panic. My mind was telling me to run up the stairs and hide while my body twitched, undeniably to fall into his arms, to apologize, to be with him again.

"I hope you hadn't planned to throw it all away."